


Summer

by ghostburr



Category: Alexander Hamilton - Ron Chernow
Genre: Canon Era, F/M, another absolute piece of bungus i wrote 10 years ago, trying to re-work it and make it acceptable for human eyes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:06:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25806337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostburr/pseuds/ghostburr
Summary: The variety of shapes I assumed was endless. This confession is not made without a blush.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/Maria Reynolds
Comments: 5
Kudos: 18





	Summer

I did not think my place in history would be of much import. I did not think I would cause so much destruction—figuratively and literally. I was lonely, I suppose, and thought that by supplanting that loneliness on someone else it would, in turn, lighten my load. Other than these, I have no excuses for my behavior, and no reasoning why my tiny existence on this earth could shatter lives.

There are two types of fame: those who search it out, and those who are called upon by fate to become famous. Or infamous; that which remains to be seen.

***

I was married at 15. Perhaps I should expand on this. It was not by choice, I must insist. As a girl, I was neither pretty nor noticeable. My parents, distant relatives of those majestic Livingstons in New York, had seen none of the money or the notoriety. We were forgotten, I suppose, in a far-flung corner of Albany. I detested my life and my father’s inability to make something of himself, and when the rogue James Reynolds came calling and promised me a life of daring and adventure, I took the first chance I got. He stole me away to Philadelphia, the grandest city in the country, to find his fortune.

Like so many others, when his fortune did not come, James found a friend in liquor. I will not pen here the atrocious things he said or did to me, but know this: the man I speak of now is responsible for most of my misery and confinement and I loathe him. He has since fled from me. Three days ago, he came here, drunk, and stole Susan away. There is nothing I can do—our fledgling judicial system has no care for a drunkard and his desolate wife. He has fled to New York City, and this is where my story must begin.

***

It is an unusually hot summer.

Summer in the city is unlike summer anywhere else. There is no breeze. There are no lakes, no ponds in which to dip one’s blistering feet. There is no wildlife to distract one from the miserable heat. There are only buildings, cobblestone streets and miscellaneous hubbub from the streets below my bedroom window, containing the dead, wet air and suffocating the residents. It is noon-day, and I am burning.

Cracking my window just slightly, I can see through the haze the hundreds of people bustling around the city. I fan myself. I considered napping in the afternoon lull (Since James and Susan have left, I convince myself that sleeping might ease the loneliness.) The softness of the air comforts me. I wear little—no corset, no petticoat—those things are nonsense in the heat. My shift shows signs of perspiration. Undergarments would be unbearable.

I have yet to find work. I have been living off the sole generosity of others.

A bit of meat from the butcher, extra apples from the market, loaves of bread not sold to patrons on any given day because of a slight hardness or a bit of mold—items like these have been keeping me from going completely hungry. I can only pray that James is feeding Susan regularly, though my motherly sensibilities tells me otherwise. He has grown angry with Susan—too angry. This cannot go on, yet I have no practical skills to offer as labor. I cannot make prints, I am not a talented seamstress, I can write and speak with relative ease, to make myself understood, but what good does that bring to a woman? I will not harp on the plight of women though. There is too much to be said.

This is when I saw Alexander Hamilton.

Alexander was not a particularly stunning man, in my opinion, though his dress certainly spoke otherwise. I saw him first from my bedroom window. I scampered to hide myself, instinctually embarrassed in my under-garments, though I knew he couldn’t see me. He was walking along, stick in hand, speaking low to himself. Now what could that be about? I knew a little bit about him; the talk of the day: that he was the Secretary of the Treasury which, to my untrained mind, meant he had money—and lots of it. I knew he had a gaggle of children (I blushed at the thought of his virility) He also had an adoring wife, wealthy beyond measure. Elizabeth Hamilton was a distant relative of the Livingstons (at this point I shall ask, who wasn’t?) Her father, Philip Schuyler was a politician and therefore brought with her untold wealth for a dowry.

Mr. Hamilton had made quite an advantageous match for himself. I closed my eyes and imagined what it must be like to be Elizabeth. 

Alexander’s whistling stopped, which abruptly ended my thoughts. _Could_ he see me? I covered my face with my fan and ducked further out of eyesight. I was, after all, scantily dressed and a complete wreck from the heat. Surely this respectable statesman would gasp with embarrassment if he caught a glimpse of my deplorable state.

I hear the clicking of his boots on the cobblestone as he walked on. Taking a peak I saw him look back only once, the sunlight gleaming off his silk hat. Did our eyes meet? I felt like a little girl. What was this fool doing, walking about on a day like today? Dressed like a peacock in full regalia. He tapped his hand against his thigh in a nervous attempt to shake the feeling of someone watching him.

Suddenly he turned.

***

“Miss!” He took his hat off.

Slowly, I peaked around the window, attempting to appear somewhat sane. He was not that far below me.

“Miss, I do apologize for intruding on your day, but I couldn’t help but notice the condition of your house. If you keep those windows closed like that, you’re going to suffocate.” Alexander paused, and then, “Miss, would you come down from there? Please? Your face is quite red.”

I panicked and the sense dissipated in my mind. I bluffed, “I rather like the heat.”

“I find that rather difficult to believe.” A handsome, cocky laugh.

“I can’t leave my daughter, sir.” I lied, crossing my arms to hide my dress.

“And I cannot, in good faith, leave a lady like yourself to swelter in a prison like this.”

I was silent for a bit. So he _is_ a gentleman, I thought.

My thoughts must have been plain on my face because he seemed to change his mind. He gave me one last squinting gaze, a bow, and turned his back.

Below, I could hear Alexander walk on, his heels clicking one again in time with his walking stick. I could almost sense his feeling of defeat. What did he know? And what business was it of his that I kept myself shut away! He’s a good one to talk! Didn’t he have important Treasury business to attend to? I stole another glance at him as he walked away, toward his house I suppose. I could follow him, beg him for money and a chance to take me away from my desolate lifestyle.

I turned from the window to take into account the truly sorry state of my living quarters.

My limited wardrobe was strewn across the floor in an earlier attempt to find something suitable for the sweltering weather. A chest of drawers, all opened, sit opposite my window and next to the door. My four post bed, in the middle of the wall to the right of me, looked the picture of misery—rumbled sheets and lumpy pillows surrounded by drawn bed-curtains. 

Houses in the city are often _shared--_ single homes are small, cramped together and hard to come by in Philadelphia. Being the most populous city (by at least 7,000 inhabitants) it is quite difficult to find living quarters adequate for a mother and her child. Or just mother—whatever the circumstances.

One of the scant few benefits of being married to a scoundrel like James is that he was able to trick an unsuspecting, wealthy man into selling him a single family house for much less than it was worth, and so here I stay. I gripped my midsection, sighing. 

For a moment I wondered how Mr. Alexander Hamilton lived; most likely in a neo-classical mansion, surrounded by his eight beautiful children, a buxom and pleasing wife and perhaps some livestock, lush vegetation and a bubbling creeks. At night, I could see the little June fire-bugs often sought after by my Susan buzz harmoniously around his faultless rose garden. I smiled in spite of myself. A fine fantasy.

***

Susan needed me to do what I was about to do. It had nothing to do with James.

I used this fact to comfort myself as I made my way down the dusky Philadelphia alleyway. It was near-dark--not an appropriate time for a woman of twenty-three to be roaming around by herself like a beggar. I walked slowly around the turning streets, trying to remember the route Alexander had walked.

I was headed to his house.

It was after my brief, uncomfortable nap earlier that afternoon that I remembered James' words about Hamilton. I woke with a start hearing my husband's words, briefly startled that he was home. He wasn't, but his voice rang out clear in my head.

In conversation with James Mr. Hamilton’s address had come up. Hoping I hadn’t mixed up the numbers (which I am often lately doing with bills and such) I approached what I thought was his house. Tall and stately, conspicuously lacking the bubbling creek and dancing children, his row home nevertheless was vastly improved from my own. Red brick exterior with pitch black, shiny shutters, three floors, a glistening roof. Pristine, I believe the word is.

My breath quickened. What was I doing here, in this place of statesmen and heiresses?

I did not belong in this part of the city. My hair was in disarray—a makeshift bun—pieces falling out and around my face. My red dress (several years out of fashion I must admit) fell thankfully to my feet, so that at least it was long enough. I hoped the color in my dress would distract from my flushed face, which would give away my nervousness at what I was about to do.

The justifications came, one by one.

I had no choice in the matter. I was at my wit’s end. Alexander Hamilton was a public figure, and therefore subject to answer to the public. James would have me do this, anyway.

My thoughts then swung in the opposite direction: This was wrong. I knew what I was getting myself into. In my head, I ran through my course of action: plead my case. Humble myself before this great and rich man, who had probably never seen a day’s hard labor, and beseech of him a few dollars. Had he not, after all, requested that he be allowed to help me just yesterday, from the heat? Surely this is a much more pressing matter than heat. He had money to spare—I reached the impeccably lacquered door and knocked.

***

No answer. I knocked again.

From inside, I heard the shriek of a child, perhaps no older than seven, and then the muffled yell of a man for silence. Running footsteps up the stairs, away from the door. A woman’s voice from far inside. My palms became moist. Clicking heels getting closer to the door.

“Hello?"

Thank God it was Alexander who answered the door, and not a member of his litter of children.

I must have looked like a fool, for I could not find my words. He was quite handsome.

“Sir,” I averted my eyes, hoping to look demure, “I must first apologize for disturbing your place of residence. I—“ he interrupted me by stepping outside, and closing the door.

“You! You finally came outside!” A pointed smile. “I told you, did I not, that the heat would get to you? It is quite pleasant this time of night, no? What brings you to my doorstep, my lady?”

I must have looked confused. This wasn’t the way I had planned our first proper encounter. His face was so earnest, so true, I hadn’t the heart to continue with my sham. He continued to stare intently. I inhaled, steadied my breath, and prepared my case. 

“My husband has deserted me, Mr. Hamilton. I…I have no one in the city to turn to, no money, no friends”, this part was true, “please forgive me my forwardness, but yesterday, when I saw you from the street—“

“—And refused me the pleasure of talking to you face-to-face--”

“--I couldn’t help but notice the superior quality of your clothing and shoes—“

A short laugh escaped him. Jovial, but rushed. His face tinged pink. “I must admit that those shoes were quite worn, and the hat I wore belonged to a friend of mine. It was a gift from my wife's sister, to be honest. I haven’t a terrible amount of money, Miss—“

“—Reynolds. Maria.”

“Maria, then. I haven’t a terrible amount of money, Maria, despite what those scandalmongers say about me.”

I felt ashamed. What had I done? Look what my assumption cost me! I felt my throat tighten. He was my last hope. He must have sensed something change in my demeanor because he quickly added, “But do not fret. I may have a little money here and there to help you on your way, Miss Reynolds.”

“Sir, I do not ask for much, whatever you can spare is fine. I just need a way to get to New York City, you see, my husband has deserted me and stolen my daughter and left me with _nothing_. I haven’t cooked a decent meal in weeks. My daughter is gone, I grow hopeless,” I felt tears well up as I continued to spill my heart to this complete stranger.

Something inside me was completely mad.

I dropped my voice, “I just cannot fathom living in the poor house, Mr. Hamilton. Yet that seems to be my last hope. I feel such a great shame coming here, and making demands of a stranger like you, for whatever you can spare,” I looked into his eyes, asserting my honesty.

I had him where I needed him; he looked concerned. He scratched his head absentmindedly.

He heaved a sigh, sincere, “I cannot give you anything tonight. I will give you a few dollars under one condition: let me come to your house tomorrow night, for my wife and children are home and it would be…improper…should they see me with another woman, no matter how innocent,” I balked at the idea that he should see my atrocious living quarters, “and I will help you, Maria. I cannot bear to see a woman such as yourself in distress. It pains me so.”

I had done it.

With a small nod, and sad smile, he looked at me in my pathetic state one last time and went inside. A chorus of “Father!” rang out among three or four children. “Who was that, Alexander?” from the wife. A natural family scene, so unlike my own. How I _envied_ it. How I wanted to, at that moment, run in shame and destroy his family at the same time. My poor, bruised arms from battles with James rang out with pain. My sore feet screamed to be out of my shoes. I was a fool.

***

The old clock chimed ten times. The moon, not quite full but bright enough to cast a glow on my now cleaned bedroom floor, filled me with peace. I lit a candle in the window, hoping Alexander would notice and realize which house was mine. (Lost in the surrealistic quality of yesterday’s situation, I had forgotten to give Hamilton my address. I relied on the chance that he might remember my street from the previous day.) I covered my forehead and fell back onto the mattress. Fool.

The night was balmy. There was a sweet, un-named smell on the breeze that managed to waft through my window. The candle flickered and almost died, so I cupped it, and waited.

On the tenth chime, there came to be a soft knock at my door. I brushed my simple black gown off and rose to answer it; I knew who it was.

“Mr. Hamilton, please, come inside.” He smiled and gave me a kiss on the cheek, as if we were old friends. I breathed in. He smelled of spices—cinnamon and ginger and a nameless, warm, masculine scent. I felt lightheaded and backed off; human warmth I had not felt in a very long time. He immediately got down to business.

“Dear Maria. I beg your pardon for so late a call—you must understand I could not leave whilst Eliza—oh, that is my wife—was awake. She is quite precocious, you know. Precocious, it means inquisitive. I have here--" he took off his hat and lay it on the table beside my door, “--A bit of money for you."

He reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out a note, “For your safe trip to New York City, a place, I might add, I am quite fond of myself.” 

I grabbed the note and looked at it—it was worth thirty dollars. This was surely enough to get me through to New York, and perhaps even have a bit left over for Susan. 

“Sir, this is too much! Thirty dollars!” I repeated stupidly. 

“My dear Maria. I am quite inclined to help those in need. You will not be the only one sleeping with an eased conscience tonight.” He smiled. 

I looked around nervously, not wanting out interaction to end. There must be something I can do to keep him around? Luckily, Hamilton spoke up.

“I wished to inquire, miss, how exactly you came upon this state of things—if you don’t mind my intrusion." His eyes looked deep into mine.

I averted my gaze demurely. It was an embarrassing topic. How could I explain my pathetic life in terms he would _ever_ understand? I supposed it was to satisfy his own curiosity that he asked about my history, not because he truly cared. 

He continued, confidently, looking around, "Are you...quiet sure you are safe, here? You are living in a rough part of the city. Your door does not have a lock. Your windows are faulty."

Please-- do not judge me.

"Since James left," I lowered my voice and put a hand to my neck, "I am afraid the house has fallen into a state of disarray. I can show you, if you want."

Something flickered behind his eyes, "Perhaps."

Slowly, I turned around to ascend my staircase. Like I assumed, Alexander soon followed.

I began, “We, that is to say, James, Susan and I moved into this house several years ago, while she was still a toddler. We were a happy family then, or at least normal. James was a commissary of the Continental Army,” I reached the top of the stairs to my room, “And while the war was going on we were used to a meager but livable lifestyle. I suppose one could say that when the war ended, and James’ job stopped being necessary, he ceased to make any income—“

I suppose I must have looked distressed, for it was then when Alexander laid a warm, comforting hand upon my shoulder. I stared at it, and my stomach flipped. 

“—It was then that he turned to the drink.” I finished my thought.

"I know the story well,” He removed his coat and placed it on my bed-- familiar. Only then did I notice the slight details of his outfit: a bit of frayed thread on his vest, a tiny tear in his sleeve, a dark spot on the fabric by his right shoulder. I studied him.

"It is an all too familiar story, is it not? Men are strange creatures. When they feel that the security of their protector status is threatened, they retreat into a sort of self-destructive rampage, ruining any chances they may have of regaining some semblance of control. My father was the same way,” I managed, wishing for water. 

Alexander walked over to the windows, touching them, "The paint has sealed these shut. I would like to come back with a knife and fix it for you."

"That is unnecessary," I blushed. "You've given me enough money to hire someone to do it for me."

"Nonsense. It would be my pleasure," He stepped closer, expression softening. He searched me and I suddenly felt exposed, "May I come back tomorrow? I can't, in good conscious, leave a woman in distress like this. Just last month I took on a case where someone died in a house from heat exhaustion. I would be a monster if I were to let you suffer such a fate."

_This was not the plan. One meeting. One bank note. Not a repeat visitor. Tell him no, and send him on his way._

"Of course, Mr. Hamilton."

Before I could correct myself and the words that flew from my mouth before I could stop myself, he grinned again and bowed. He grabbed his overcoat and swept from the room, boots making dull thuds as he went back down my stairs. 

I waited until I heard the front door slam and I exhaled, burning, falling back onto the mattress again. 


End file.
